


Stranding

by smallashes



Series: Artefacts [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, M/M, One Shot, post-plantation, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallashes/pseuds/smallashes
Summary: "To drive or leave (a boat, sailor, or sea creature) aground on a shore."The sea calls for James like a home forgotten.





	Stranding

The whiskey in its glass, cleaned with water from the shore, coats James’ mouth with salt and beckons him to return to the sea. He stands in the sand barefoot with a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other, the water lapping at his ankles in welcoming rhythms, the cold grasping at his feet. In the distance, the masts of ships peek just over the horizon, working their way into the English Channel. _This was your life,_ they seem to say; the water, the cold, the masts together in some strange symphony. _You’ve spent lifetimes at sea._

He pours himself another glass, the burn stronger this time and the whiskey less salty. He misses the rock of the boats, the command at the helm, and – in some strange way – he misses his crew. He chokes down the vestigial grief and anger with more whiskey straight from the bottle this time, fuck the glass. Why should he miss a crew whom he killed and betrayed? No, not betrayal, he thinks. It was many things, but it had not been betrayal.

The sun dips into the West, as if pointing to the land of his sins and painting the sea and sky a deep, deep red. He wasn’t sure why they had returned to England, but part of him felt his story had begun here and that it was only fair that it should end here as well. Far from London still, far from their horrid concept of civilization. This was a village: small, quiet, and perhaps even a tad roguish. The New World bore too many memories, faced too many of the same struggles; and while he was sure he would never forget their battle for sovereignty nor the injustices faced in the colonies, it was no longer in his face, he could turn a blind eye.

He exhales into the sea air, the spray of salted water misting face, coating his lungs. He raises the bottle one last time and feels a hand placed on his shoulder – _Thomas_. James lets the neck of the bottle slip from his fingers as Thomas takes it, Thomas’ other hand falling from his shoulder to lace into James’. “Come inside,” Thomas mutters, his words heard just barely before they’re lost to the crashing of the waves.

“I’ll be there soon,” James replies. His eyes are still trained to the distant ports and the vague, black needle-like masts against the reddened sea.

“Supper’s ready.”

“Another minute, Thomas,” says James. “Please.”

Thomas nods, loosening his fingers from James’ and taking the whiskey with him. James watches him leave, headed back to their cottage-home just on the outskirts of the village. He feels a tinge of new grief, for a life he never thought he’d leave, but had – deep in his being – wanted so desperately to leave behind. This new life was a rest, a place to grow old, to finally, _finally_ release the breath held so long in his lungs.

He takes a step further into the sea, the water up to his calves, before turning his back to the sunset.

†

Their cottage smells of pastries and roast and _home_ ; Thomas greets him in the kitchen with concern on his face, though the table has been set and their food plated out. James resists the urge to apologize – he isn’t entirely sure why he’s sorry to begin with. He takes a seat across from his lover, eyes lowered in a shame he doesn’t understand.

“You’ve been troubled as of late,” says Thomas.

“Was it the drinking that gave it away?” says James, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

“The standing in the middle of the beach for hours on end was admittedly more concerning. If you’d like to take a trip out by boat, we can.”

The smile falls. James nods in acknowledgement. “I appreciate the sentiment, but the circumstances would be different. I’m not sure exactly what’s troubling me, but land feels awfully strange. That’s… not to say I wouldn’t enjoy fishing with you.”

“You miss being in command.” Thomas’ eyes glimmers in thought. “On board a ship proper.”

“I feel as though I’ve left an entire life behind me; not the piracy or the navy, no,” James shakes his head. “Those were symptoms of decades at sea. I hardly remember a life before it.” He is grateful to live near the shore still, to be adjacent to the scent of the ocean, to be caught in the crossfire of sea-spray and the tides.

“Had I not known you, James, I’d almost think you had been entranced by a siren.”

 _You were my siren,_ James thinks. _As stupid as that sounds._

“Do you miss your sea-legs?” Thomas asks with the ghost of a smile. “Or is this life simply not exciting enough for you? What without the bustle and commotion of the navy or piracy.”

“I wanted an escape from that life so badly,” says James, grimacing. “But I hadn’t realized what sort of life would lie ahead.”

“A happy one, I should hope, even if I cannot fill the missing parts of your soul.”

James reaches across the table for Thomas’ hand and squeezes it. He looks into Thomas’ eyes, pained that Thomas may feel responsible, unfulfilling. “I am happy,” he says, pleading. “Please don’t think otherwise.”

†

Morning wakes James with a cool breeze on his face, a gentle caress from the open window. He swings his arm to feel for Thomas, who has – on previous occasions – woken him up by blowing on his face. But his hand meets air instead, and he turns over to find his bed empty next to him. James groans. He must have missed Thomas before he started making breakfast. He pulls off the sheets and stretches, though his muscles still ache from sleep. A swim before breakfast, perhaps. Being in the water may do him some good.

The cottage is surprisingly quiet. Remnants of Thomas’ activities litter the kitchen: the kettle is still hot over a smoldering stove, half a loaf of bread lay on the counter, and the cutlery are scattered across cutting boards and plates. Suspicion settles in before panic – has Thomas run into town? Have they run out of butter?

Movement outside the window catches his eye. He wanders over to back door, stepping outside to see Thomas in full view, a basket by his feet and pushing a rowboat into the water. James runs down, barefoot across the grass, then sand; his joints are aching, but it’s a _good_ aching, dammit. Thomas rests with the boat half-submerged in the shallow waters, still stuck firmly in the sand. He grins at James, gesturing to the basket. “I was just about to go get you,” he says.

“What’s this?” James leans into the rowboat to find a net and paddles inside. It’s decent in size, sufficient enough for the two of them.

Thomas puts a hand on James’ shoulder and drops the basket into the boat. “A fishing trip. I brought our breakfast.” He grins, kisses James on the cheek.

James can feel a smile growing, reflexive from the kiss and the kindness of the thought. “Thomas, I-I didn’t want to trouble you.”

“But you will join me.”

“Of course.” He pulls Thomas in for a hug, face buried into his shoulder.

“This is no bother, James. Please don’t think of it like that.”

James nods. _I know_ , he thinks. _I know._

Together, they push the boat into the sea, and they sit across from each other as it lazily sways with the waves. Thomas opens the basket and hands James a sandwich, corned beef between two slices of rye. And while the smell of the sea air and the mist feels familiar, welcoming, James is glad this isn’t a ship from his past. Their boat is small but comfortable, his food is of better quality, and his company is the _best_ of quality. James leans forward, a hand on the side to steady himself, as he kisses Thomas before they begin their breakfast. He feels Thomas’ mouth curl into a smile, their foreheads touching once they break their kiss.

“We can do this more often,” Thomas says, as if answering a lingering question in the air.

“I’d like that,” James replies.

“I know the sea is your lifeblood, James, and I want you to be at peace.” Thomas looks him in the eyes. “I hope I can be a part of that.”

James kisses him again, taking in the taste of the sea-spray on Thomas’ lips. “You were always going to be a part of that.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, Hideo Kojima for bringing this concept back into my attention.
> 
> I have learned..... that the origin of sandwich came from the 4th Earl of Sandwich (1718-1792) but I can't imagine he was the _first_ to put non-bread between two slices of bread, so.
> 
> Anyway I thought my gay pirates streak would be taken care of once I got my gay pirates story published but apparently not. Hope y'all enjoyed wherever my writing style's taking me


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